Polar Shift

by Clive Cussler

“I don’t understand.”

  “We don’t have many details. We only know that we have to get to the island as soon as possible.”

  Captain Ivanov snatched up the ship’s phone and ordered the engine room to proceed at full speed. Austin raised an eyebrow. Karla Janos must be a remarkable young woman. She had obviously entranced the weathered old Russian sea dog.

  “Another request, if you don’t mind,” Austin said. “I wonder if there is a clear area of the deck where Joe and I can work without interfering with the ship’s crew.”

  “Yes, of course. There is plenty of room in the stern.”

  “We brought two large bags aboard. Could you see that they are brought aft for us?”

  “I’ll give the order right away.”

  “One more thing,” Austin said as they rose.

  These Americans seemed to have an endless list of requirements. “Yes?” he said gruffly.

  “Don’t put that bottle away,” Austin said with a grin. “We will want it to toast Ms. Janos’s safe return.”

  The captain’s frown turned to a broad grin. He gave Austin and Zavala several bone-cracking back thumps and led the way to the main deck. He rounded up a couple of crewmen, who carried the large bags to an area behind the superstructure.

  After the captain left to attend to his duties, the crewmen watched in fascination as Austin and Zavala pulled a circular metal framework from the bags.

  The aluminum-tubing backpack unit enclosed a compact, two-stroke engine, a 2.5-gallon fuel tank and a four-blade propeller. They attached the framework to a narrow seat. Then they attached lines from the framework to a canopy made of ripstop nylon, which they spread out on the deck. In a short time, they had assembled the Adventure X-Presso, a French-made paraglider.

  Zavala, who had piloted a wide range of aircraft, cast a skeptical eye at the paraglider.

  “That thing looks like a marriage between an electric fan and a barber’s chair.”

  “Sorry,” Austin said. “I couldn’t fit an Apache helicopter into the carry-on.”

  Zavala shook his head. “We’d better pull our gear together.”

  Their other luggage had been stowed in a cabin. Austin pulled a holster out of his duffel, checked the load in his Bowen revolver and stuffed extra ammunition into a fanny pack. For this mission Zavala had chosen a Heckler & Koch .45 model that was developed for the army Special Forces. They carried a GPS, compass, portable radios, a first-aid kit and other emergency items. They wore inflatable flotation belts instead of bulky life vests, and dressed for the damp weather with waterproof outer layers over wool.

  A crewman knocked on the door and relayed the captain’s invitation to come to the bridge. When they entered the pilothouse, Ivanov beckoned them over to a radar screen and pointed to an elongated blip on the monitor.

  “This is Ivory Island. We’re about ten kilometers from landfall. How close do you want to go?”

  There was a slight haze rising from the ice-flecked green water. The sky was overcast. Visibility was less than a mile. “Have someone keep watch through binoculars,” Austin said. “When he sees the island, drop anchor.”

  The captain spread out a chart. “The main harbor is on the south side of the island. There are many smaller coves and inlets around the perimeter.”

  After conferring with Zavala, Austin decided to explore the expedition headquarters, then follow the river inland.

  “We have enough fuel for roughly two hours in the air, so we’ll have to keep our search itinerary tight,” Austin said.

  They went over their plans again and had wrapped up the discussion when the lookout said he could see the island.

  “Joe and I are grateful for all your help,” Austin told the captain.

  “It’s nothing,” Ivanov said. “Ms. Janos reminds me of my own daughter. Please, do whatever you can to help her.”

  At Austin’s request, the ship was positioned with its stern to the wind and a portion of the deck cleared for takeoff. Austin was pleased to see that the wind was no more than ten miles an hour. A stronger wind might push them backward. He knew, too, that the wind speed in the air would be higher than on the ground.

  They first practiced takeoff without the canopy. The trick in a tandem takeoff was to run with synchronized leg movements and launch gently.

  “That wasn’t bad,” Austin said after their first clumsy attempt.

  Zavala glanced at the crewmen, who had been watching the practice runs with a mixture of amusement and horror. “I’ll bet our Russian friends have never seen a four-legged duck before.”

  “We’ll do better the next time.”

  Austin’s confidence was misplaced. They stumbled halfway to takeoff, but the next two practice runs were nearly perfect. They put on their goggles, spread the canopy on the deck, extended the lines and connected them to the backpack. Austin hit the starter button and the engine whirred softly. The prop wash inflated the canopy so that it rose off the deck. Austin squeezed the hand throttle to rev up the engine, and they began their awkward, double-legged run toward the stern and into the wind. The three-hundred-square-foot canopy caught the wind and jerked them into the air.

  Austin added power and they began to climb. The paraglider had a climb rate of three hundred feet per second, but its ascent was logy because they were riding tandem. Eventually, though, they reached an altitude of five hundred feet. Austin pulled on the left-hand line, which brought the wingtip down, and the paraglider went into a left-hand turn. They flew toward the island at a speed of twenty-five miles per hour.

  As they neared land, Austin pulled both wingtips down simultaneously and the paraglider went into a gradual descent. They came in over the right-hand spit of land that enclosed the harbor and swung around on a gradual turn that took them over the deserted beach toward the river he had seen in the charts. Austin saw an object near the river, but the mists enshrouding the paraglider made it difficult to see details.

  Zavala shouted, “There’s a body down there!”

  Austin brought the paraglider lower. The body was in a small, inflatable life raft that had been drawn up on the beach barely out of reach from the river’s flow. He saw that the figure had long gray hair. He forced into the wind, stopped the engine and pulled back on both brake handles.

  The wing was supposed to act like a parachute and allow for stand-up landings. But they came in too fast and too high. Their knees buckled, and they did a double nose plant in the sand, but at least they were down.

  They collapsed the wing, unharnessed the backpack and approached the body of a woman, who was curled up in the raft in a fetal position. Austin squatted next to the raft and felt her pulse. It was weak, but she was alive. He and Zavala gently rolled her over onto her back. Blood stained her jacket near the left shoulder. Austin pulled the first-aid kit from his pack, and Zavala went to open the jacket so they could inspect the wound. The woman groaned and opened her eyes. They filled with fear when she saw the two strangers.

  “It’s all right,” Zavala reassured her in his soft-spoken voice. “We’re here to help you.”

  Austin brought his canteen to the woman’s mouth and gave her a drink of water.

  “My name is Kurt, and this is my friend Joe,” Austin said when the color came back to her face. “Can you tell us your name?”

  “Maria Arbatov,” she said in a weak voice. “My husband…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Are you with the expedition, Maria?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are the others?”

  “Dead. All dead.”

  Austin felt as if someone had kicked him in the stomach. “What about the young woman? Karla Janos?”

  “I don’t know what happened to her. They took her away.”

  “The same people who shot you?”

  “Yes. Ivory hunters. They killed my husband, Sergei, and the two Japanese men.”

  “Where did this happen?”

  “The old riverbed. I crawled back to the campsite and put th
e raft in the river.” Her eyes flickered and she passed out.

  They inspected the shoulder more closely. The wound wasn’t fatal, but Maria had lost a great deal of blood. Zavala cleaned and bandaged the wound. Austin called the Kotelny on his hand radio.

  “We found an injured woman on the beach,” he told the captain.

  “Miss Janos?”

  “No. Maria Arbatov, one of the expedition scientists. She needs medical attention.”

  “I’ll send a boat in immediately with my medical officer.”

  Austin and Zavala made Maria as comfortable as possible. The boat arrived with the medical officer and two crewmen. They carefully loaded the woman aboard and headed back to the icebreaker.

  Austin and Zavala hooked up the paraglider. The takeoff went much smoother than their icebreaker launch. As soon as they had gained altitude, Austin steered the paraglider along the river. Alerted by Maria, they kept a sharp eye out for the ivory hunters. Minutes later, they made a soft landing in the permafrost near the old sheds. They slipped their side arms from their holsters and cautiously made their way toward the settlement.

  While Joe covered him, Austin checked out the main tent. There were broken eggshells in the rubbish bin, evidence of a recent breakfast. They peeked into the smaller tent, then made their way to the sheds. All the buildings were unlocked except one. They pounded the padlock with a boulder. The lock stayed intact, but the nails holding the clasp in the rotting wood gave out. They opened the door and stepped inside. A musky animal smell greeted their nostrils. The shaft of light coming through the open doorway fell on the fur-covered creature stretched out on the table.

  “This isn’t something you’re likely to see at the Washington Zoo,” Zavala said.

  Austin bent over the frozen carcass and examined the stubby trunk and undersize tusks. “Not unless they’ve opened a prehistoric wing. This is the carcass of what looks like a baby mammoth.”

  “The state of preservation is incredible,” Zavala said. “It looks freeze-dried.”

  After inspecting the frozen animal for a few minutes, they went back outside. Austin noticed boot prints in the permafrost leading to a path that ran alongside the river. They set the paraglider up for a takeoff from a low hill and flew along the winding path of the river, reasoning that Maria Arbatov couldn’t have been far from the waterway when she was shot. Austin saw three bodies lying near a fork in a narrow canyon. He circled the immediate area but saw no sign of ivory hunters, and set the paraglider down near the edge of the gorge.

  They climbed down the side and made their way to three bodies. The three men had been shot. Austin’s jaw hardened, and all traces of warmth vanished from his light blue eyes. He thought about Maria Arbatov’s harrowing escape down the river and vowed that whoever did this would be made to pay.

  Zavala was bending over scuff marks in the gravelly sand. “These guys didn’t care about covering their tracks. The trail should be easy to follow.”

  “Let’s go pay them our respects,” Austin said.

  Moving stealthily with guns in hand, they followed the footprints along the winding canyon. Rounding a corner, they came upon a fourth body.

  Zavala knelt by the side of the dead man. “Knife wound between the shoulder blades. Strange. This gentleman wasn’t shot like the other people. I wonder who he is.”

  Austin rolled the corpse over and stared at the unshaven features. “Not the kind of face you’d see at a chamber of commerce meeting.”

  The ground around the dead man showed evidence of a scuffle, and prints led away from the body. Austin thought he saw the smaller boot prints of a woman in with the others. Moving even more quietly, they made their way along the gorge and eventually came to a place where the footprints ended and the banking had been broken down.

  They climbed from the ravine, and picked up the trail again in the permafrost. Although the countryside was open and they could see for miles, there was no sign of life except for a few wheeling seabirds. The trail led to a shallow valley that brought them to the cave entrance.

  “Someone has been doing some mining,” Zavala said.

  “Nice call, Sherlock.” Austin picked up a jackhammer, attached to a portable compressor, that had been lying on the ground near the entrance.

  Zavala’s sharp eyes examined the charred rubble around the hole. “Okay, Watson. Someone did a little blasting here too.”

  Austin said, “We’ve been here less than an hour and I’m already starting to dislike Ivory Island.”

  He crawled into the hole and came out a minute later shaking his head. “Suicide. We don’t know how far it goes. We don’t even have a flashlight.”

  They made their way back to the paraglider, called the icebreaker and asked Ivanov to send in a party to collect the dead and to bring in electric torches. Austin suggested that his men be armed. Knowing the captain’s interest, Austin said he was hopeful that Karla was still alive. The captain said Maria Arbatov had been treated and was doing well. They wished each other good luck and clicked off.

  Minutes later, the paraglider took off from a low hill with all the grace of a drunken gooney bird. They gained altitude and wheeled high over the island. Austin had thoroughly examined the charts, but still he was surprised at the size of the island. There was a lot of territory to cover with an aircraft that moved with a cruising speed of twenty-six miles per hour.

  Austin marked their takeoff point as a center, and then he flew in an expanding spiral that allowed for an overlapping search of a large area. They saw only the featureless permafrost. Austin was about to head back to the beach to rendezvous with the boat party when Zavala shouted in his ear.

  Austin followed Zavala’s pointing finger and saw a well-defined track leading up the side of the volcano. They flew toward the volcano and saw that the trail was not a natural feature but rather a series of switchbacks cut into the side of the mountain. Austin suspected that man had a hand in the track’s creation.

  “Looks like a road,” Austin said.

  “That’s what I thought. Want to take a look?”

  The question was unnecessary. Austin had already brought the paraglider around, and they were soaring toward the lip of the caldera.

  30

  THE SUBTERRANEAN CITY WAS laid out in a grid pattern under the domed roof of an enormous cavern. The ancient metropolis was cut off from the sun and should have been in complete darkness, but it shimmered in a silvery green light that emanated from every building and street.

  “What makes everything glow so brightly?” Schroeder asked as he limped along a street with Karla at his side.

  “I studied light-emitting minerals as part of a geology course,” Karla said. “Some minerals glow under the influence of ultraviolet rays. Other types emit light from radiation or chemical change. But if we’re right, and this is an old volcano, maybe there’s a thermoluminescent effect caused by heat.”

  “Could this be an old magma chamber?” Schroeder said.

  “That’s possible. I just don’t know. But there’s one thing that I’m absolutely sure of.”

  “What’s that, my dear?”

  She gazed with awe at the glimmering edifices that stretched off in every direction. “We are strangers in a strange land.”

  After leaving the mural tunnel that led to the city, they had walked under a huge corbel arch down a broad ramp to an open plaza with a step pyramid built of huge blocks at the center. The processional motif, including the domesticated woolly mammoths, was continued on the exterior levels of the pyramid, although the colors were less bright than in the access tunnel. Karla surmised that it was a temple or platform for priests or speakers to address people gathered in the plaza.

  A paved boulevard about fifty feet wide led into the heart of the city. They had strolled along the thoroughfare like a couple of tourists bedazzled by the bright lights of Broadway. The buildings were much smaller than Manhattan’s skyscrapers—three stories at the most—yet they were architectural wonders, co
nsidering their probable age.

  The promenade was lined with pedestals. The statues they once supported lay in unrecognizable heaps of rubble, as if they had been pushed off their perches by vandals.

  Schroeder rested his sore ankle, then he and Karla explored a couple of buildings, but they were as empty as if they had been swept clean with a big broom.

  “How old do you think this place is?” Schroeder said as they plunged deeper into the city.

  “Each time I try to date it, I become tangled in contradictions. The fact that the murals show humans and mammoths coexisting places them in the Pleistocene period. That was a time span that ran from 1.8 million to ten thousand years ago. Even if we go with the most recent date of ten thousand years, the high level of civilization here is astonishing. We’ve always assumed that mankind didn’t evolve from its primitive state until much later. The Egyptians’ civilization is only around five thousand years old.”

  “Who do you think built this wonderful city?”

  “Ancient Siberians. This island was connected to an arctic continental shelf that extended out from the mainland. I didn’t see any pictures of boats, indicating that this was pretty much a landlocked society. From the looks of it, this was a rich city.”

  “Since it was such a flourishing society, why did it end?”

  “Maybe it didn’t end. Maybe it simply moved somewhere and became the basis of another society. There is evidence that Europeans as well as Asians populated North America.”

  As Schroeder mulled the implications of Karla’s analysis, excited voices could be heard shouting from behind them in the direction of the city gate. He squinted back along the boulevard. Pinpoints of light were moving in the area around the plaza. The ivory hunters had also blundered into the city.

  “We’re sitting ducks out here in the open,” Schroeder said. “We can lose them easily if we get off this lovely avenue.”

  He slipped into an alley that connected with a narrow side street. The buildings were smaller than on the main boulevard; none was taller than one story. They appeared to serve more of a residential function than the grander, more ceremonial structures lining the main drag.